Photographs sure carry a weight, don't they? The black and white and sepia tones speak with a voice that has known sorrow.
They tell the story of fifteen minutes between small talk and bad news.
Of a motorcycle, a truck, and a bottle.
They inform wary viewers of a Saturday funeral.
Only six sunsets after a Saturday marriage.
They advise a newlywed widow to let go, to open her heart to love once more.
Although they know she can now only live in fifteen minute increments.
"But maybe," they say, "she will never take 900 seconds for granted again."
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
Photographs sure carry a weight, don't they? The black and white and sepia tones speak with a voice that has known sorrow.
They tell the story of fifteen minutes between small talk and bad news.
Of a motorcycle, a truck, and a bottle.
They inform wary viewers of a Saturday funeral.
Only six sunsets after a Saturday marriage.
They advise a newlywed widow to let go, to open her heart to love once more.
Although they know she can now only live in fifteen minute increments.
"But maybe," they say, "she will never take 900 seconds for granted again."
This evening, my grandpa and I were looking through old pictures. One was of his friend Rodney and Rodney's girl, Karen. My grandpa attended their wedding on a Saturday. The next Saturday, he was at Rodney's funeral.
